


To Make Gold From Straw

by clockheartedcrocodile



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cock Worship, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Fantasizing, Genderqueer James Fitzjames, M/M, Oral Sex, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Shameless Smut, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:21:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22147093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockheartedcrocodile/pseuds/clockheartedcrocodile
Summary: After the arctic- after the rescue, the return, the quiet indignity of recovery- Crozier and Fitzjames reminisce about what might have been.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 19
Kudos: 206





	To Make Gold From Straw

**Author's Note:**

> This is teeechnically a prequel to It's Like the Sun Came Out, in that they're both set in the same universe, but they truly have nothing to do with each other.

London is dark at this hour. Rain pours down in sheets, splattering from rooftops to doorsteps, spilling from the mouths of the gargoyles. With it comes a hot, dense fog that muddies the air and makes the street lamps glow like pale imitations of stars. Somewhere in the city a hansom cab splashes through the puddles. It pulls up to the curb outside a doorstep and expels two men, soaked by rain, who hurry up to the door and begin fumbling with their keys.

One of them gets the door open at last and both hurry inside. James Fitzjames, gentleman, removes his hat at once and runs one hand through his thinning hair. Francis Crozier, bastard, merely stands and shivers, glowering at nothing, and no doubt wishing he had not dismissed Mr. Bridgens early for the day. The house is empty, dark, and cold.

“Well,” says James, after a long moment. “I thought it was rather good.”

“Bugger off,” Francis mutters. He begins the long trudge to his bedchamber upstairs without removing his coat.

“For what it was, Francis,” James says placatingly to his retreating back. “For what it was. It honored Lady Jane, and the memory of her husband. It honored the men-”

“It honored no one!” Francis snaps from somewhere above his head. “It was a _story._ He writes as though he intends to make legends of failures. We should be glad he’s not a poet. There is no poetry in what happened out there.”

James sighs. He takes the time to remove his coat, boots, and gloves, before following Francis upstairs to his bedchamber. The bedchamber they have now shared for many long months. “Mr. Dickens is an artist. It’s his job to make gold from straw. Besides,” he adds, quite reasonably, as he leans in the open doorway, “you cannot fault him for his play’s inaccuracies. It is not as though any of us have written a memoir. Not for lack of trying.”

A disgruntled snort from Francis. James watches him busy himself with candles, just enough for the dim, flickering flames to bring light to the room. His coat and hat are already tossed carelessly over the back of a chair by the door. James watches him straighten up from where he’s been stooped over the table by the bed. He groans, puts his hands on the small of his back and stretches. “Fuck’s sake,” James hears him mutter, almost to himself. Then, “I wish you wouldn’t try, you know.”

“I must,” James sighs. He means it to be a comical, put-upon sigh, but it comes out sounding weary and drained. “I would go mad if I didn’t try.”

“Come here,” says Francis. “Let me help you out of your things.”

They undress each other in silence, listening to the rain rattle the windows. James hums pleasantly as he helps Francis on with his nightshirt; they’ve dressed and undressed one another often enough now that the act retains only a portion of its original thrill. When they are both quite dry, and shivering in their nightshirts and trousers, James wraps Francis up in his arms and holds him there, eager to share a little of his heat.

“I did not care for the way he treated our Lady Silence,” Francis mutters into his shoulder. His breath leaves a damp spot on the cotton.

James scowls in agreement. “Nor did I,” He kisses the curve of Francis’ ear, then pulls away and claps him firmly on both shoulders. “Still!” he says coaxingly. “The evening was not a _complete_ waste of your time. It was good to see Lady Jane, was it not?”

“Well enough,” says Francis, with his usual tact. He rubs his wrists with a thoughtful, distant look in his eye, as though his gloves had chafed. “I’ll have to call on her tomorrow and thank her for an excellent dinner.”

Lady Jane had insisted they come by her own private residence for dinner after the play, along with Mr. Dickens himself- to Francis’ chagrin- and several of her personal friends. It had been a fine evening. James, who had eaten rather too much and is beginning to feel a little sick with it, gives Francis a knowing look. “You hardly ate a thing,” he says in a chiding tone.

“I enjoyed it nonetheless,” Francis says quietly. James catches an amused glimmer in his eye just as he slides one cold hand up James’ pale belly, dipping beneath his shirt.

James hisses- from cold and sensitivity both- and Francis rubs small circles into his skin by way of apology. “Then you _were_ looking,” James grins, showing teeth. “I thought you were.”

Francis looks up at him with great innocence, his hand still on James’ belly. It feels proprietary in a way, and the thought makes James’ prick twitch with interest. “I enjoy seeing you fed,” Francis says simply.

James purses his lips. “It was a good dinner, wasn’t it?” he says, acutely aware of how full he feels, how if he weren’t utterly helpless to the flush rising in Francis’ cheeks, he might feel tempted to go to bed at once and sleep it off. “I think I ate rather too much.”

“On the contrary, I think you didn’t eat enough,” says Francis, with a small smile. His hands settle on James’ waist- _big hands,_ James thinks, somewhat dazed, _and my slim waist_ \- and pull him in close enough to kiss. James sighs and parts his lips, lets Francis lick hesitantly into his mouth, and a moment later an unexpected little laugh shudders through him. Francis pulls away, frowning. “What?”

“I was thinking of you making eyes at me across the dinner table,” James admits. The corner of his mouth twitches. “For far too long, you know, it was I who made eyes at you.”

“Ah.”

“And you did nothing. You did not even notice.”

“I noticed,” Francis mutters darkly against James’ mouth.

Again James parts his lips for Francis, and again he deepens their kiss. He lets his eyes fall closed, enjoying the lazy kisses of a man who knows he has tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow. Desire is running hot in him, making him ache to touch and be touched, and it’s not long before James is carefully steering Francis backwards across the room to press him against the wall. On the other side, he can hear the rain pouring down in torrents.

“Perhaps you’re right,” James murmurs, moving to kiss Francis’ neck, his shoulder through his shirt. Francis stiffens as James’ kisses drag lower, lower, before he kneels on the floor between Francis’ legs. James presses an open-mouthed kiss to the front of Francis’ trousers. “Perhaps I didn’t eat enough.”

A long, low groan from Francis then. James’ mouth waters as he unbuttons Francis’ trousers, an instinctual response, and he lets out an equally low groan of pleasure when he finally gets his hand around Francis’ prick. It is a very fine prick, hard and thick and everything James had hoped it would be back when all he had were fantasies to warm him through the lonely arctic nights.

“God, I love your prick,” he murmurs, almost to himself. He kisses it almost delicately before mouthing wetly at the head; he places his hands firmly on Francis’ thighs before nursing at his prick in earnest. From somewhere above him, he hears a dull _thump_ as Francis’ head falls back against the wall.

James’ eyes fall half-closed as he takes Francis’ prick in deeper, drooling over it as it sinks into the back of his throat. He swallows around the head, almost gagging, before pulling back and suckling at the head, chasing the taste of sex and salt and sweat. “Do you know how long I wanted you?” he groans, pressing wet kisses down the shaft of Francis’ prick as though it were the column of his neck.

_“Christ.”_

“Since before I even _met_ you,” James barely gets the sentence out before his mouth is on Francis' prick again, too eager for that taste, and that warm, velvety weight against his tongue. When he pulls back again a thin string of saliva trails from his mouth to the head. He begins to stroke Francis' prick with his hand. “Hungry to meet you. Hungry for your attention. Your approval. Your _prick.”_

He slides Francis’ foreskin up over the head and dips his tongue into it, sucking the soft skin there. He hears Francis make a low, animal sound in the back of his throat. “You think I didn’t know?” he growls, and James is pleased to hear that his voice is shaking. “Think I didn’t see you biting your lip at me across the wardroom . . . wanted to . . . _God ._ . . wanted to stop up your insolent mouth with my prick. Give you something better than your own thumb to suck on.”

James groans around Francis' prick. He looks up and sees Francis’ eyes dark with lust; his hips move, just a little, like an animal hoping to mount James’ mouth, and James groans louder and takes Francis even deeper. He can hear his own wet sucking sounds, barely audible over the rain, and it only inflames his lust further.

“You made me feel like an old man,” Francis groans. His hands twitch where they lie flat against the wall, and James wonders why he does not reach out, take James by his once-fine hair and use his mouth as he pleases.

“Never saw a man so desperately in need of a shag,” James mumbles, between long, loving licks up the shaft of Francis' prick. “Wanted you to take me to task . . . should’ve put me over your knee in front of the whole Admiralty . . .”

“An old man,” Francis repeats weakly. “God, you made me feel ugly.”

James presses one last open-mouthed kiss to the base of Francis' prick before nuzzling into the soft, graying hair he finds there. He breathes deeply, dizzied by the scent of him. “You made me feel invisible.”

“James . . .”

James runs his hands up Francis’ body, wrapping his arms around his waist. “I measured you up and found you wanting, and still your indifference enraged me,” he murmurs. Something in his heart aches terribly at the memory. “I hated the way you drank. The man it made you. Not even half the man I knew you to be. I was disappointed. Repulsed. Infuriated that you would not look at me,” His hands slide slowly back down to Francis’ thighs. “I hated you. I would have let you do anything to me.”

“Do _not,”_ Francis croaks. “Do not _say_ such things.”

James looks up at him, his nose still buried in the soft thatch of hair between Francis’ legs. He licks through it twice, with the full flat of his tongue, before kissing the swell of Francis’ belly between his prick and his navel. “Why not?” he murmurs. “It’s the plain truth.”

The look Francis gives him makes something in James’ belly tremble like a violin string. Some primal instinct down in the deep places of him makes him return his attention to Francis' prick, laving it with his tongue as though to appease, to satiate.

James feels Francis’ hand in his hair then, running his fingernails along his scalp, and James groans with his mouth full, his whole body shivering at the sensation. Francis must like that, because he does it again, and then his hand is under James’ chin and he tilts his head up and holds it there, letting his prick slide wetly out of James’ mouth till the head rests just on his swollen bottom lip.

“Because,” says Francis, in a low voice, “I wouldn’t have been gentle.”

James’ skin prickles with heat. His mouth, already slick with Francis’ essence, begins to water for more. Instead he takes Francis’ prick and begins to stroke it lovingly, turning his wrist just so, the way that Francis likes. Francis closes his eyes. He grits his teeth in pleasure and lets his head fall back against the wall. _It is heaven to see him like this,_ James thinks, his untouched prick throbbing between his legs.

“Was my indifference truly such a grievance to you?” Francis groans through his teeth. He looks down at James again, holding his gaze as James tongues the head of his prick.

“Some nights I thought I might combust,” says James, with a ferocity that surprises even him. He presses a fervent kiss to the base of Francis’ prick. “Collapse in on myself and consume myself, if only the fire would make you turn your head.”

Francis looks at him in amazement. “You were obsessed.”

“I was obsessed with the man I thought you were.”

Francis licks his lips. He looks pained, but James’ mouth returns to his prick and his face slackens with helpless pleasure. “And . . .” he says finally, between groans. “And . . . the man I am?”

James thinks of the man the whiskey had been hiding- the straight-backed, clear-eyed Captain Crozier, ten times the man James had taken him for and twenty times the captain- and feels such a profound rush of emotion that he falters in his ministrations, pressing his forehead against Francis’ thigh and breathing heavily.

“When you looked at me- really looked at me- for the first time . . . when I saw _you_ . . .” James says weakly. “I knew that I might love you. And then I did. And now I do.”

For a moment, he simply breathes. Then, murmured almost as an afterthought as he continues devoting his attention to Francis’ prick, “I’ll put a bullet in my head before I drink whiskey.”

Francis makes a weak, shuddering sound that’s almost like a sob. James clings to him, suckling hungrily as though for nourishment, and soon enough he feels his mouth flood with warmth as Francis spends himself. The scent is intoxicating and the taste even more so; James chokes it down with a small gurgling noise and coughs wetly, his hand coming to cover his mouth with absurd primness. His whole body is flushed with desire. At once he leans forward again to clean Francis’ prick with his tongue, moaning with pleasure all the while.

“God, James,” Francis all but whimpers, sliding several inches down the wall. His chest rises and falls with every ragged breath. “You’ll ruin me.”

Unable to ignore his own pleasure for a moment longer, James fumbles with his trousers- already leaked through, damn it to hell- and takes out his own prick, stroking it shamelessly as he kneels between Francis’ legs. _“Fuck,”_ he groans, tossing his hair back from his face. He relishes the way it makes Francis’ eyes darken. “The things I wanted from you . . . things I _never_ . . . never . . .”

“Tell me,” Francis is still weak from his climax, but his voice is strong. “Tell me everything you wanted.”

 _That voice_. Gentle as a lover’s hand in private and as heart-stopping as the roar of a lion when commanding his men. There had been a time when James would do anything to hear that voice in his ear. Anything. Anything.

James closes his eyes and chases the thread of that _anything_ , his hand almost too rough on his prick, too eager to spend himself. _Anything,_ he thinks desperately, and his thoughts darken as he chases his climax. He had wanted, yes, he had fantasized, yes, and there were some fantasies that were safer than others. Some that he deserved more than others.

His pleasure is almost at its peak- he is right on the _cusp_. James’ mind runs wild. He can feel the scar tissue dissolving, the black water beneath the ice, his thoughts spiraling out and out and out and _oh I wanted you to take my pride and show me where to shove it, I wanted you to silence me with your prick, I wanted you to break my back over your knee I wanted you to spit in my mouth I wanted you to take my honor and take my ship and take me, take me, take me, until-_

Francis’ hands, warm and heavy and solid on his shoulders. Both of them. James shudders with frustration as his release evades him. He opens his eyes and Francis is kneeling in front of him, disheveled, his trousers still undone. He looks terribly, terribly sober.

James’ hand stills on his prick, his breath catching. There’s something in Francis’ eyes, something raw and pained and frighteningly earnest, that makes James feel like a butterfly pinned to a card. It is the look of a man who can see into the very center of James’ heart, and somehow loves him just the same.

“James,” says Francis, in a low and fierce voice. “I will not do any of those things.”

James trembles where he kneels. He looks down; he can’t hold the gaze. He doesn’t ask how Francis knows what he’s thinking. He knows it must show in his face.

“James,” says Francis again. He doesn’t turn James’ head to face him but his voice is pleading for it. “I don’t want to do those things. I don’t think you want me to do them either.”

James is silent. He can heard the unspoken question in Francis’ voice, and now, _even now,_ there’s not an ounce of pity in it.

He doesn’t want to disappoint him.

It appears he will have to.

“It is . . . painless,” says James, to the floor. “Pain, I mean. Wanting it. It is easier than . . . wanting.”

“Riddles,” Francis says, with the ghost of a laugh. He lets his hands drop. “Speak plainly, for my sake. I want to give you what you’re due.”

 _What I’m due,_ James thinks wistfully. He looks up. Francis’ eyes are the color of melting ice.

“Surely you have seen,” he says weakly. “What I want. What I have wanted all along. Surely you _know._ ”

Francis’ eyes widen. His lips part, only slightly.

James swallows. “You must think me terribly weak.”

Francis lets out a strangled cry. His hands come to James’ shoulders again and he leans on him, head bowed, trembling. _“No,”_ he says, in a firm captain’s voice that hardly shakes at all. “You are not _weak.”_

“Francis,” James croaks, but Francis has already pulled him into an embrace, is pressing kisses to his cheeks, his forehead, the bridge of his nose. He kisses his mouth last of all, and kisses it deeply, until James can only wrap his arms around Francis’ neck and let himself be kissed.

“I won’t hear you turn those words inward on yourself,” says Francis, when he finally breaks the kiss. He presses his forehead against James’ and breathes deeply, shakily. “You are not weak, or ridiculous, or a fake. By God, you’re a _lady_ ,” and here he laughs, a joyful, exultant thing, and kisses James with breathless delight. “Jesus great buggering Christ, how did I not _see_ it until now!”

James feels something crack in half inside him and something like light shining in. Something like leads in the ice, like a dress in a trunk, like Sir James Ross screaming himself hoarse from the top of a distant hill, _you are saved, stop walking, I will come to you._

“Francis,” he stammers, overwhelmed. “Do you . . . I . . .”

Francis pulls him up to his feet and kisses him again. He looks almost as happy as James feels. “I’m right,” His smile seems to transform his whole face. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

James nods, his heart in his throat. Then his words find him again and he grips Francis’ arms, hard enough to bruise. “I am still your James. You know that, don’t you?”

“I do, I do. My God.”

“I do not . . . I am not _always_ . . . what I mean is . . .”

“When it pleases you, then?” says Francis. Again his hands have settled on James’ waist, and again James feels himself grow hot with eagerness at the touch.

“Yes,” James can only stare, dumbstruck, and deeply in love. “When it pleases me.”

Francis licks his lips. He ducks his head in something like deference- he looks unaccountably shy. “And . . . does it please you now?”

“Oh, it does,” James breathes. It is his turn to kiss Francis’ cheeks, his chin, the turn of his jaw. “It does.”

Francis pulls James in and holds him close. For a moment they simply embrace, swaying slightly on the spot, while James rubs Francis’ back through his nightshirt and thinks, _he has seen me, he has seen me, he has seen all and still he wants me._

Francis kisses James’ throat, at the place where his neck meets his shoulder. “Let me treat you like a lady, James,” he says against James’ skin. “It is no more or less than you are due.”

James can tell that it’s a question. Mutely, he nods, and lets himself be led by the hand to the bed they share. Francis takes the blankets- there are rather too many of them, but James gets cold in the night- and folds them carefully aside, making a place for James to lie back. James fists his hands in the sheets for want of something to steady his hands. He knows Francis won’t rise again tonight, not so soon, but this doesn’t prevent a shiver of longing from running through him when Francis joins him on the bed. He kneels over him, framing James’ hips between his thighs, and leans down to kiss him again. James, caught up in the kiss, shudders when he feels Francis begin to unbutton his nightshirt.

It’s only James’ chest, and it’s nothing Francis hasn’t seen before- their bodies are familiar to each other by now- but still his fingers hesitate on the buttons, and he looks up at James as if to ask for permission. James breath comes in shaky, ragged exhales. He knows he has no bosom to speak of, nothing soft and private for Francis to put his hands on, but still Francis unbuttons him slowly, slowly, as though savoring the act.

James swallows. His chest rises on the inhale and lightly touches Francis’ knuckles. He watches Francis’ eyes as his pupils darken and grow wide. Francis bows his head, his hands framing James’ torso now that his nightshirt is fully open, and presses warm, hungry kisses to his chest. He kisses like there’s something there to kiss, and an involuntary cry leaves James’ mouth. He closes his eyes tight and lets his head drop back, breathing hard and making ecstatic sounds that would embarrass him, if embarrassment weren’t the farthest thing from his mind.

He can hear Francis murmuring nonsense under his breath, nonsense like _beautiful girl_ and _God those sounds_ and _lucky I know how to handle a lady’s prick_ before James feels Francis’ hand wrap warm and firm around him, stroking his prick like it’s some precious thing, and _finally_ his pleasure reaches its impossible peak and James could almost weep with the joy of it.

“That’s it,” he hears dimly, through a haze of bliss as the world comes back into focus. “That’s it, James. That’s my girl. Look at you. Look at you . . .”

James feels Francis’ hand warm against his cheek, and the sensation of being kissed. He feels weak, languid, and sleep threatens to take him, but James opens his eyes and resists the temptation.

Francis lies down next to him and holds him close, burying his face in James’ hair. He looks at him like he’s a miracle, like he’s the best thing that ever happened to him. Like James is his favorite person in the world, against all odds. “I love you,” James murmurs, exhausted. Francis holds him tighter. “I love you. The man you are.”

“I love the man you are,” Francis mumbles into James’ hair. “And the woman.”

James blindly feels for Francis’ hand, and finds it. He wants to fall asleep like that, Francis’ hand in his own.

Outside, the rain stops falling. Neither of them notice.


End file.
